


life was never worse (but never better)

by shineyma



Series: a storm you're starting [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Baby Fic, F/M, Pregnancy, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:25:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4023277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The circumstances being what they are, there’s really no good way for Jemma to learn that she’s pregnant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	life was never worse (but never better)

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I have no idea what happened here. I _hate_ pregnancy, babies, children, and most especially fic about any of the above. And yet I cannot seem to stop writing about it.
> 
> It is, to be frank, the worst.
> 
> Title is from Taylor Swift's _Wonderland_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

The circumstances being what they are, there’s really no _good_ way for Jemma to learn that she’s pregnant.

However, of all possible ways, being informed by HYDRA after the mandatory blood panel they run in the wake of her hiring is, she thinks, a little worse than most.

“Pregnant?” she echoes, weakly.

“Yes.” Her supervisor, Mr. Varcheck, taps his pen against the conference table and feigns a smile. “Congratulations.”

Panic is rising in her chest, but—with effort—she shuts it down. She can’t afford to react right now. She needs to get through this meeting without giving herself away and make it through the rest of the work day (the _work day_ , she can’t work in the lab if she’s pregnant, the sheer number of hazardous chemicals present and the variety of experiments being run—!) without arousing suspicion.

As soon as she gets home, she can have the breakdown she feels approaching. She will cry and scream and possibly break something, and then she will signal Coulson for extraction and return to the Playground, which is unhappy and awkward and tense but at least not hazardous to her life or the life she is, apparently, carrying within her.

… _Pregnant_. She’s _pregnant_.

She takes a deep breath and feigns a smile of her own. “Thank you, sir.”

“Arrangements will have to be made,” says Ms. Doran, the head of HYDRA’s medical department—such as it is. “Of course, working in the lab will be far too dangerous for someone in your condition.” She smiles, unsettlingly sincere. “But to lose a scientist of your caliber would be a shame.”

Mr. Varcheck’s displeasure is visible. “We could always terminate it.”

Jemma’s racing heart jumps to her throat. She can’t allow them to do that. It honestly would be the best solution—eliminating the complication would remove the risk to her health, the leverage a delicate state would give HYDRA over her, and the need to end this undercover assignment so soon after its beginning—but…

She can’t allow it. She won’t.

The other man across the table, Mr. Bakshi—whose introduction did not include a job title—frowns.

“It’s a possibility,” he allows, and gives Jemma a piercing look. “The father?”

She hadn’t even thought of him, yet, and the reminder does nothing for the terror clawing at her lungs.

Should she be honest? The truth, she’s sure, would do excellent things for her cover—perhaps even for her standing within HYDRA. But if she shares the truth, that presents the risk that it might get back to him.

She wants to believe Vault D will hold him forever. But look where optimism has gotten her.

In the end, any answer but the truth is simply too easy to disprove. She must be honest.

“Grant Ward,” she says.

Mr. Varcheck drops his pen.

“I see.” Mr. Bakshi folds his hands on the table, gaze sharpening even further. “You’re acquainted with him?”

“Yes,” she says, and swallows. “Before SHIELD fell, we were on a field team together.”

Ms. Doran looks between Mr. Varcheck and Mr. Bakshi, appearing confused. “I’m sorry. Is this relevant?”

“I should say so,” Mr. Varcheck mutters. “I believe termination is off the table.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Bakshi says. He leans back in his seat. “Mr. Ward is one of our best specialists, but he’s been missing since the uprising. We’ve dedicated no small amount of manpower to searching for him.”

Well. Isn’t that frightening news. She’ll have to inform Coulson.

“Do you know where he is?” Mr. Varcheck asks Jemma.

She shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. Our team was separated during the uprising.” Not untrue.

“Really?” Ms. Doran asks, checking her notes. “Considering the level of hCG we discovered, conception must have occurred during that time.”

“It was the day before,” Jemma offers, throat tight.

She’s done her best not to think of that day since Ward’s true allegiances were revealed, but her subconscious mind has insisted on revisiting the memory in her dreams at least a dozen times. It’s horrifying how often she wakes with his name on her lips and an aching desperation between her thighs.

It was only the once—a rushed encounter in the cargo hold, stress relief for the both of them: he furious and worried (or at least pretending to be) over Agent Hand’s inclusion in the mission against the Clairvoyant and she exhausted, carrying weeks of pent-up tension and worry over Skye’s injury and miraculous recovery—but Ward is, it seems, the sort of man who leaves an impression.

“Ah,” Ms. Doran says, and marks something on her tablet. “That fits.”

“Tell me, Ms. Simmons,” Mr. Varcheck says, leaning forward. “Has Mr. Ward, to your knowledge, ever expressed interest in fatherhood?”

Jemma clenches her hands into fists below the table, digging her nails into her palms in order to contain her reaction to that question. It is _beyond_ infuriating that they’re more concerned with Ward’s possible reaction to an abortion than her own—that they haven’t even asked for her opinion but ask now for his.

Calm. She needs to remain calm.

She needs an answer to that question.

The idea that Ward might care for fatherhood—might care for anything at all—is laughable. Or it would be, were she not suddenly struck by the mental image of giving birth only to have Ward steal her child away like some six-foot-two and highly lethal Rumpelstiltskin. She suppresses a shudder.

However, infuriating as it is that they care more for Ward’s opinion than hers, it also presents an opportunity. If HYDRA fears Ward’s reaction to any harm coming to her— _their_ —child (and, by extension, to Jemma herself), then Jemma will have leverage of her own.

“I couldn’t say,” she answers, as calmly as possible. “We’ve never discussed it.”

It’s not a definite yes, but it’s not a definite no, either, and she can see that it makes Mr. Varcheck uneasy.

Mr. Bakshi, however, merely looks thoughtful. He leans forward and activates the intercom in the center of the table, ordering, “Send me Grant Ward’s personnel file.”

Oh, dear. So much for leverage.

But at least she didn’t claim that the answer was _yes_ , only to be immediately caught in a lie. None of her practice with May included preparation for this eventuality, and her lacking talent in deception won’t be enough to save her if she makes a grievous misstep.

She needs to be careful.

His tablet pings seconds later, and he unlocks it, scrolling through (she presumes) Ward’s file.

“In light of his psychological evaluations,” he says, after several minutes of very tense silence, “It is my opinion that Mr. Ward would react poorly—and with great violence—to any perceived threat against his child…or the child’s mother.”

Jemma exhales slowly. Personally, she finds it difficult to believe that he’d be at all affected (though she imagines that Ward taking an interest in her well-being will be a feature in her nightmares in the months to come), but she’s not going to argue against the ruling.

For the moment, she and the fragile life within her—about which she _cannot afford_ to think right now—are safe.

“Grant Ward is not a man we want to make an enemy of,” Mr. Varcheck says. “Assuming, that is, that he’s alive.”

Ah. There is that. It’s been a month since the uprising, and their apparent attempts to find him have obviously failed. It wouldn’t be out of the question for them to assume him dead.

Mr. Bakshi is silent for a moment.

“It’s not a risk we can afford to take,” he says eventually.

“No,” Mr. Varcheck agrees. “What are your orders, sir?”

“Arrangements will be made,” Mr. Bakshi says. “Ms. Simmons is not the first pregnant scientist whose services we’ve required—” There’s a certain emphasis on the word which suggests to Jemma that those who came before her were part of the Incentives program, and her stomach turns. “—And, likely, will not be the last.” He motions to Mr. Varcheck. “Assign Ms. Simmons to one of the private laboratories on the fifth floor. I’m certain Ms. Doran will be happy to coordinate with you in determining which projects will be hazardous to the child’s health.”

She has to bite her tongue to do it, but Jemma manages not to comment on the fact that, once again, her opinion is not being sought in determining her own circumstances. These are, after all, her superiors. It’s best not to antagonize them.

“Of course,” Ms. Doran agrees cheerfully.

“Yes, sir,” is Mr. Varcheck’s response.

“The two of you are dismissed,” Mr. Bakshi says, and Ms. Doran and Mr. Varcheck make themselves scarce at once—leaving Jemma alone with Mr. Bakshi.

Her stomach is twisting awfully. With only _one_ person of authority across the table, instead of three, it’s more difficult to keep her mind off the implications of the news.

She’s going to be a _mother_. Within her uterus there is an embryo which, assuming her pregnancy is progressing normally, is currently the size of an apple pip. Over the next eight months it will grow and develop and eventually become an actual _human being_ —a human being which owes half of its existence to _Grant Ward_ , of all people.

She rather wants to cry. Or faint—that feels appropriate.

But this isn’t the time. This isn’t the time _at all_ , so she pushes away thoughts of dietary restrictions and possible complications and nurseries and diapers and university choices and forces herself to focus on Mr. Bakshi.

“Are you well, Ms. Simmons?” he asks. “You look pale.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, pressing one hand to her cheek. She realizes that it’s shaking and hides it beneath the table once more. “This is all…very shocking. I’ve been feeling unwell lately, but I assumed it was the stress of finding and beginning a new job, not—not pregnancy.”

“I see.”

“There’s just so much to think about,” she continues, worried by his bland expression. “Pregnancy carries so many risks and possible complications, and parenthood—” She cuts herself off and shakes her head, reminding herself that she’s _not thinking about this_. “What I mean to say is, I’m fine. Just surprised.”

“I imagine so,” he says dryly, and taps at his tablet for a moment. “You live off-base, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” she confirms.

“And you don’t own a vehicle?” he asks.

“No, sir,” she says. “I live within walking distance.”

“Hmm.” He leans forward to activate the intercom once more. “Send Morse to Conference Room C.”

“Right away, sir,” the woman on the intercom says.

Morse, who arrives a few moments later, proves to be a tall and lovely but very _intimidating_ woman. Jemma has no idea what she might have to do with this meeting, but a sudden sinking feeling in her chest suggests to her that this is about to get worse.

“You wanted to see me?” Morse asks.

“Yes,” Mr. Bakshi says, and motions to Jemma. “This is Jemma Simmons, one of our new scientists. She’ll be requiring a guard detail.”

Jemma’s heart stops. “A—I’m sorry, sir?”

“A guard detail,” he repeats. “For a woman to live and commute alone is a risk, Ms. Simmons, and not one that we can afford to let you take.”

Panic is rising in her chest again, even worse than before. If she’s given a guard—someone to monitor her at all times of the day, someone to follow her, a watchful eye she must assume will be entirely loyal to HYDRA—she won’t be able to signal for extraction. She won’t even be able to pass along intelligence.

She’ll be stuck, alone in the lion’s den, with no support and no exit strategy…and in a state that means a greatly reduced capacity to fight back, should she be caught out as a mole.

Somehow, she doesn’t imagine that HYDRA’s fear of Ward would outweigh their hatred of disloyalty.

“Sir,” she says. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I truly don’t think that’s necessary—”

“I’ll be the judge of what’s necessary,” he interrupts sharply, and Jemma subsides into silence, heart hammering against her ribcage.

This is not good.

“What kind of guard detail are we talking?” Morse asks, giving Jemma a once-over. “Restrictive, preventative—?”

“Preventative,” Mr. Bakshi interrupts. “Ms. Simmons is carrying the child of a highly dangerous man—a man HYDRA does not wish to make an enemy of. It is in our best interests to ensure that she comes to no harm.”

“Understood, sir,” Morse says, and looks to Jemma. “Do you live on-site?”

“No,” she says, keeping her voice even by dint of practice. (A scientist must keep a cool head, even in the most frightening of circumstances.) “I live on Hearne Drive. It’s not a long walk.”

“It’s risky,” Morse counters, and returns her attention to Mr. Bakshi. “Will she be moved?”

“Yes,” Mr. Bakshi decides. “That’s for the best, I think.”

Jemma attempts—respectfully—to offer protest, but she’s overruled. By the time she’s dismissed from the meeting, she’s been assigned quarters on the thirty-second floor and a rotating guard detail which means that she will, at all times, have company hand-picked by Mr. Bakshi.

There’s no way she’ll be able to report to Coulson. She won’t even be able to warn him that she’ll be out of contact. She has, essentially, just been inducted into the Incentives program, with her unborn child’s life the threat that will force her into genuinely working for HYDRA.

She doesn’t know whether it makes it better or worse that HYDRA has no idea it’s backed her into this corner.

\---

A hundred times a day or more, Jemma thinks about escape. Her guards are meant to protect her, not restrict her; they aren’t watching her for a threat, and it would be simple enough to slip an incapacitating agent out of the lab, inject them while their attention is elsewhere, and run.

It’s tempting—tempting enough that she physically aches whenever she passes the cabinet in which the anticholinergic compounds are stored—but she doesn’t dare risk it. There’s too great a chance that something will go wrong. Should HYDRA catch her before she makes it to safety—should her escape fail—she’ll be in far, far greater danger than she is now.

If HYDRA discovers that she has reason to fear them beyond the very natural and healthy fear that all HYDRA agents have for their organization…

She can’t risk it. Not in her current state. Not with the life—the _child_ —she’s carrying within her. She’s always wanted a child, has had motherhood on her list of future endeavors since she was young, and while this is much sooner and in much less joyful circumstances than she anticipated…she wants it. She wants with a desperate, unbelievable longing to see this child to term, to hold him or her in her arms, to raise and cherish and _love_ her child.

It doesn’t matter that Ward—a murderer, a traitor, a _monster_ —is the father. It doesn’t matter that the child has effectively ruined her mission here.

She loves her child already. She won’t put him or her at any greater risk.

She won’t run.

\---

The months pass.

Jemma gets to know her guards. There are four, rotating on an eight-hour basis in a pattern which ensures that each gets at least one day off per week. They’re real people, kind people, with families and lovers and hobbies, and she hates it.

HYDRA agents aren’t supposed to be human. They’re supposed to be monsters—like Ward and Garrett—remorseless and evil. Human beings, kind people—like Perez who presents her with gingerbread biscuits for nausea at the beginning of his every shift during the first trimester, like Hicks who shows her pictures of his own children, like Aldridge who tells awful jokes that never fail to make her laugh, like Warrington who asks intelligent, curious questions about Jemma’s work—aren’t supposed to do evil things.

Good people aren’t supposed to work for HYDRA.

But then, isn’t Jemma herself doing exactly that?

( _Is_ she a good person, though? She’s always thought herself such, has dedicated her life to bettering the lives of others through science, and surely that’s a good thing to do. But the things she does for HYDRA…even with her choice of projects limited to what won’t endanger her pregnancy, she’s doing a lot of damage.

How many people have died—will die—through the work she’s done for HYDRA? And at what point do the lives she ends outweigh the ones she’s saved?)

She tries not to think of the future, of what will happen when her child is born—or, worse, beyond that, of raising her child within HYDRA. She allows herself ten minutes per day to worry about it—to let despair and grief fill her up, to cry over what is and what isn’t (here she is pregnant and alone; were she back at the Playground, her every check-up would involve at least three spectators and her sonograms would go on the communal fridge and undoubtedly there would be daily arguments about names and nursery themes and who most deserved to be named godparents)—and then she lets it go and moves on.

There’s no point in dwelling in misery. It won’t change anything.

\---

Jemma gives birth three weeks before her due date.

Labor is long and painful and enough to make her wonder how humanity has survived this long, yet somehow she is strangely numb throughout. In the face of her terror—of the possible complications (the baby is right on the edge of being premature, what if there’s brain damage, what if the baby develops RDS, what if there’s jaundice, what if what if what if), of what happens next, of the fact that the only person present to hold her hand is Morse, of all people, who has taken a bizarre and, frankly, horrifying interest in her pregnancy—the pain is a distant, barely present thing.

No.

This is a lie. Even with her terror, even with the drugs, she feels every second of the pain of labor. It is excruciating, the most pain she’s ever felt—worse even than the Chitauri virus, the electricity that filled her veins as her body turned against her. It’s agony.

But she forgets it all the moment her son is placed in her arms.

“Oh,” she breathes, staring down at his tiny, red face.

Jemma has loved before—romantically and intellectually. She has felt the rush of discovery, of invention, of coming up with an answer to a question that has puzzled scientists for centuries. She has saved her own life and the lives of others.

Nothing in all of that has prepared her for what she feels looking down at her son.

“Oh,” she says again, tears stinging at her eyes.

“He’s beautiful,” Morse says, with unsettling sincerity.

Jemma can’t be bothered by it, not today. “Yes. He is, isn’t he?”

She names him Cameron because it fits him and Edmund for her father. It takes at least ten minutes of arguing before she is allowed to give him the name Simmons instead of Ward (the level of fear HYDRA holds for Ward, that they continue to impose what they feel would be his wishes in her pregnancy this many months since he was last seen, is downright petrifying), but ultimately, she prevails.

Cameron Edmund Simmons is six pounds and one ounce, eighteen point three inches, and the most important person in the entire world. If she sees signs of his father in him, she ignores them. They’re irrelevant.

She is resolved that nothing and no one will harm her son. She’ll do whatever she must to keep him safe—whether that means killing every single person in HYDRA…

…Or learning to truly live as one of them.

\---

Three days after Cameron is born, he and Jemma have not yet been released from the infirmary.

She’s holding him—not nursing (he just finished not fifteen minutes ago), just cradling, letting the warmth of her skin and the steady beat of her heart soothe his sleep—and they could be the only two people in the world. Aldridge is in the corner, standing guard, but she’s not said a word since arriving to take Perez’s place. It’s possible Jemma’s bearing discourages conversation, which she regrets, but how can she help it?

Her tiny, perfect son is sleeping in her arms. How can she be expected to care about anything beyond him—beyond the slight part to his lips and the little sound that escapes him every four minutes and thirty two seconds—beyond making _absolutely certain_ that he’s breathing regularly and normally?

How is she meant to care about anything else in the world when her son is a part of it?

She doesn’t look up when the door opens, assuming that it’s some nurse or another. She doesn’t even look up when Mr. Bakshi speaks (“As you can see, I was entirely serious”)—he may be her superior, but rank means nothing when Cameron is in the room.

She _does_ look up when the bed sinks as someone sits on the edge of it, but scolding words about personal space die on her lips as she looks into the face of Grant Ward.

He’s not looking at her. His eyes are fixed on Cameron, and his expression makes the bottom drop out of her stomach.

He’s fixated— _enchanted_. Perhaps Mr. Bakshi was right after all, because Ward looks every bit the awed father and not the least bit disdainful.

Suddenly those nightmares she has about Ward stealing Cameron away don’t seem so ridiculous.

He lifts a hand to run a gentle finger along Cameron’s face, and Jemma can’t breathe. He’s even larger than she remembered. She’s horribly, petrifyingly aware of their difference in strength and in training—of the fact that he could kill her with one hand.

But even worse than that is the undeniable fact that, should Ward decide to take Cameron from her, there’s not a single person in this building who would do a thing to stop him. All of the care she’s received, all of the protection and attention and consideration, were in Ward’s name—for fear of what he would do if they weren’t provided.

No one would care to protect Cameron or Jemma from _him_.

The heavy silence in the room is broken abruptly by a wail as Cameron wakes, and Jemma forgets her fear in favor of comforting her son.

“You’re all right, darling,” she coos, rocking him gently. “There’s no call for crying now, is there? Mummy’s right here and everything’s fine.” Perhaps it was discomfort that woke him—Jemma’s tension or her suddenly racing heart—because he calms very quickly. “Shh, Cameron. Mummy’s got you.”

He subsides into the little squeaking sound that always follows after crying, and she beams down at him.

“That’s a good boy,” she praises. “There’s no need for tears. Mummy just had a little fright, that’s all. Everything’s fine.”

Nothing is fine and she’s still frightened—or rather, frightened again—because Ward is looking at her now, and his eyes burn into her. But she is a scientist who has survived more than seven months undercover at HYDRA, whilst pregnant, and she’s very good at fighting down fear and panic.

“Cameron,” Ward says roughly, and Jemma’s heart skips a beat. “That’s what you named him?”

“Yes,” she says, eyes fixed on Cameron’s sweet, lovely face. “He looks like a Cameron, don’t you think?”

Ward strokes his finger down said face once more, and Cameron’s eyes droop. He likes touch, her son.

“Yeah,” Ward says. “I guess he does.” He rubs his thumb over Cameron’s tiny brow. “Hi, Cameron.”

There’s emotion in his voice—more than she would have expected—and no menace at all.

It’s worse than a threat.

“Sorry for scaring your mom,” he continues, which is somehow even more terrifying. “Guess we should’ve called ahead.” He pauses, hand falling away from Cameron’s face. “What’s with the grunt?”

It takes an absurd amount of courage to look away from Cameron, to acknowledge that the rest of the world exists, but she manages it. Ward’s looking at Aldridge, and though his expression is difficult to read (he’s got quite the beard going), it’s clearly enough to make poor Aldridge nervous.

Mr. Bakshi, Jemma notes, has already left.

“That’s Aldridge,” she says, attempting a reassuring smile in her poor guard’s direction. It’s something of a failure, she fears, as she herself is anything but calm. “One of my guards.”

Ward laughs, just a little, under his breath. “And why do you have guards?”

“Everyone here is very frightened of you.” She drops her eyes back to her son. It makes speaking easier. “Mr. Bakshi, after reading your personnel file, was of the opinion that you would react poorly should Cameron come to any harm.”

“He wasn’t wrong,” he says, with a very dark undertone. It lightens as he adds, “But there’s not much I could do from a cell.”

Jemma’s breath catches in her chest. Very, very conscious of Aldridge’s presence—of the cameras in every corner—she raises her eyes to meet Ward’s. He quirks an eyebrow at her.

“Is that where you were?” she asks. “A cell?”

The truth—that she’s known this whole time where he was, that she not only knew about the cell but was present the day he was put in it—hangs between them for a long moment. Then Ward smiles, slow and sharp.

“Yeah,” he says. “I was in a cell.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says. Her voice trembles a little, but when she darts a glance at Aldridge, she seems more sympathetic than suspicious. “Was it SHIELD?”

“It was.” He lowers his voice a touch, and the thought that it might be in deference to the way Cameron is blinking sleepily sits oddly in her throat. “And don’t worry. They’ll pay for keeping me from my son.”

The threat—and it is most certainly a threat, for all that it’s couched as reassurance—sends ice down her spine, and only by looking down at Cameron, by using his tiny, trusting, perfect face as a focus, does she contain her reaction.

“Oh?”

“I’ve already got it started,” he says. “Just a little something to show my appreciation to HYDRA for taking care of my son—and his mother.”

His hand, when he lays it on her thigh, is warm through the blanket. It does nothing for the chill that’s come over her. Tears burn at the back of her throat, but she swallows them down, keeping her attention on Cameron.

He’s so small. It keeps catching her off-guard, which is ridiculous—she’s barely taken her eyes off of him in the last three days, nothing about him should be a surprise—but there it is. His face, with his perfect little nose and perfect little eyes and perfect little mouth—his tiny fingers with their tiny nails…

She has microscopes larger than her son. He’s tiny.

And perfect.

And so, so fragile.

Ward could tell her his entire plan—could give a detailed, step-by-step accounting of it—and she still wouldn’t contact Coulson. She loves her team—Fitz is her platonic soulmate, Skye her sister, May and Coulson and even Trip like family—but she loves her son more.

She won’t risk him to save them. She can’t afford to care what Ward is up to.

So she doesn’t ask. “That’s nice.”

Ward chuckles, and his hand leaves her thigh. She knows a moment of relief—the contact wasn’t threatening or even frightening, but that’s what made it so horrible—before he’s touching Cameron, two fingers smoothing over his sparse hair. Jemma’s heart jumps in her chest.

“He looks like me,” Ward says. “Don’t you think?”

“Yes,” she says, both because it’s what he wants to hear and because it’s true. She’s ignored the signs of him she’s seen in Cameron, but she _has_ seen them. “Quite a bit.”

“Not disappointed?” he asks.

“You are his—his father, after all,” she says. She’s dismayed by the way her voice catches, but it’s not to be helped. “It’s only to be expected.”

“I am his father,” Ward agrees, and she won’t call his tone _wonder_. She won’t. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for your pregnancy.”

He sounds sincere. It’s terrifying.

“That’s all right,” she says. “It wasn’t your—well. It’s understandable.”

“But you think it was my fault, don’t you?” he asks.

It _was_ his fault. If he weren’t such a monster—if he weren’t _evil_ —he wouldn’t have been in that cell. He would’ve been a member of the team, someone HYDRA cared nothing for—someone on whose behalf HYDRA would feel no need to protect her. She could have left that meeting and gone home to her apartment, called for extraction, and been back at the Playground by the end of the day.

It would have been awkward, navigating carrying the child of a man who was nothing more than a friend, but they would have made it work. And they would have been surrounded by their team.

It would have been much less lonely and much less terrifying than what actually occurred.

“It was your fault,” she says evenly. “You got yourself caught, didn’t you?”

He laughs. “I did. But don’t worry.” His hand leave’s Cameron’s head to cup her chin, tilting her face up in order to force eye contact. “I won’t be leaving the two of you again.”

This, too, is a threat.

“The two of us?”

“I never paid you the attention you deserved, back on the Bus,” he says. He tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering at the hinge of her jaw, and Jemma’s heart pounds painfully in her chest. “I’m sorry for that. And I’m gonna make it up to you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” she says.

“Yes, I do,” he disagrees. “We’re a family now, the two of us and Cameron. And a man should take care of his family.”

If he’s trying to frighten her, he’s doing an excellent job of it.

“Unless you have objections?” he asks.

She has objections. She has _countless_ objections. But there’s a warning in his eyes, and she reminds herself that should it come down to a custody dispute, she knows _precisely_ whose side HYDRA will take—and it won’t be hers.

Whatever torments Ward can devise, she can endure. As long as Cameron is safe.

She swallows. “No. No objections.”

“Good.” Ward’s smile is terrifying. “I’m glad you ended up on the right side, Jemma.”

It’s the first time he’s ever called her that, and it’s…disquieting. Not nearly so much as what he does next, however.

He cups a hand around the back of her neck and leans forward to press a hard kiss to her lips. With Cameron in her arms, she can’t shove him away, and his hold is too firm for her to pull back. Returning the kiss is her only option.

That this logic doesn’t occur to her until after the kiss has ended—until he’s let go of her and leaned back, leaving her breathless—she will ignore.

She has to look away from his smug smile, and her eyes land on Aldridge, whose presence she had all but forgotten. She’s watching Jemma, worry and sympathy written across her face.

Jemma knows her guards, and her guards know her. She’s spoken with Aldridge about Cameron’s conception, that it was a one-time encounter with a man who, in retrospect, she never knew at all. Aldridge doesn’t know how betrayed Jemma feels or how horrified she is by the real Ward, but she knows that the man all of HYDRA fears is not the man who Jemma welcomed into her metaphorical bed.

Ward follows her gaze. “What’s your name?”

“Sir!” Aldridge starts a little, snapping to attention. “Candice Aldridge, sir.”

“Well, Candice Aldridge, as much as I appreciate HYDRA’s dedication to protecting my family, I think we’re good here. You can go now.”

Aldridge looks between Ward and Jemma, clearly torn. “Sir, my orders—”

“You can guard the door, if you want,” Ward says, dismissive. “But do it from the outside.”

She hesitates a moment longer, but in the end, Aldridge’s concern for Jemma loses out to her fear of Ward—for which Jemma certainly can’t blame her—and she leaves with a nod.

“Privacy at last,” Ward says.

He nudges Jemma over, closer to the other edge of the oversized hospital bed, and then—once there’s room—makes himself comfortable beside her, draping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close.

Her heart beats a wild rhythm in her throat, and she fears she might be sick. It’s not that his touch—his proximity—makes her skin crawl. It’s that it _doesn’t_. It’s that he’s a murderer, a traitor, a liar, and a _delusional_ one to boot ( _my family_ , he called them), yet part of her wants nothing more than to curl into his side.

For eight months on the Bus, he meant safety. For two weeks after the uprising, he meant danger and terror. Since then, he’s been out of sight (though not out of mind), and it’s apparent that while her mind knows well the threat he poses, her body doesn’t—or simply doesn’t care.

“It’s not,” she says, forcing her thoughts away from that topic.

“What’s not?”

“Privacy,” she says. “There are cameras everywhere.”

He laughs. “Yeah. That’s one area where I wish HYDRA hadn’t taken its cues from SHIELD. Can’t get away from the fucking cameras to save your life.”

“Language,” she says weakly, for lack of anything else, and he laughs again.

“Sorry.” He kisses her temple, warm and sweet, and something twists in her gut. “That’ll take some getting used to.”

“There are things you don’t think about,” she says. This is something she can talk about—something she can—must—share with him. Something easier than thinking about how dangerous he is and the plans he has for the people she loves. “Cleaning up your language and baby-proofing the living quarters, those are easy.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks. “What kind of things aren’t?”

“I cleared out my iPod,” she says, smiling down at Cameron. He’s clinging stubbornly to wakefulness, and even if the words aren’t meant for him, it’s good for newborns to be spoken to often. And, on a selfish note, it’s much less of a strain to speak to him than to Ward. “You’d be surprised how many songs you wouldn’t want your child to listen to.” She scrunches her nose at Cameron. “Sex, sex, cursing, sex _and_ cursing, drugs, murder—popular music is very disturbing, when viewed through the lens of influencing a child.”

“Huh.” Ward toys with her hair, contemplative. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Classical music is good for infants,” she says. “There have been studies done.” Her shoulders and arms are going numb from so long in the same position; she shifts Cameron into the crook of one arm to free the other and gently taps his nose when he whimpers in response. “Cameron likes Mozart, don’t you, darling? You always kicked Mummy very hard when she played it for you.”

“He do a lot of kicking?” Ward asks. He dangles a finger above Cameron’s face, waving it back and forth, and his chest jumps a little behind her as Cameron follows the motion.

“Yes,” she says. “He was very active.”

“He’s a fighter,” Ward says, pleased. “Like me. Aren’t you?” He addresses Cameron. “Gonna grow up to be a specialist? I’ll teach you all the tricks.”

The prospect—the idea that Cameron might grow up to be _anything_ like Ward—is so horrible that she genuinely can’t wrap her mind around it. Her brain simply refuses to process the thought. Just the possibility of her sweet baby becoming a murderer…

“Fighting’s a long way off,” she says. There’s a hollowness in her lungs that makes her breath short, and she focuses on evening it out as Cameron’s face scrunches unhappily. “Isn’t it, love? We can’t even support our own head yet, can we?” He gazes up at her, and she gives him a smile. “Tricks for eating and walking come first.”

“So they do,” Ward says. “He’s not doing much kicking now, is he?”

“No.” She fiddles a bit with Cameron’s blanket, untucking and retucking the ends. “He’s calmed down since being born.”

“He’s quieter than I was expecting.”

She surprises herself with a laugh. “He’s quiet _now_. But he’s not at all shy about making his displeasure known.” She pokes Cameron’s cheek. “Isn’t that right, love? Nearly gave your poor, tired Mummy a heart attack the first time Lorenzo got near you.”

“He cried?” Ward guesses.

“He screamed,” she says. “Gave me an awful fright—to say nothing of Lorenzo, who found himself in the sights of Hicks’ gun.”

His fingers tap on her shoulder. “Lorenzo, huh?”

There’s a tone to his voice that she doesn’t at all like, and she looks away from Cameron to frown at him.

“Sometimes babies dislike people,” she says. “There’s no need for—”

Her courage fails her at his raised eyebrow, and she takes a deep breath as she returns her attention to Cameron. For a moment there, she almost forgot to whom she was speaking.

Perhaps it would be better if she _could_ forget—if she could learn to see him as Cameron’s father and nothing more, to ignore how lethal he is and the threat he poses to _everyone_.

But the cold stone of fear in her gut will not easily be banished.

“Three days old,” Ward says after a long moment. “He’s already capable of dislike?”

“Oh, yes,” she says, latching on to the distraction. “Take for instance, this.” She strokes her finger down Cameron’s cheek, and he blinks a little. “When he’s sleepy—or, as now, fighting sleep—he enjoys having his face and hair touched. It’s soothing—reassuring. But he doesn’t at all like having his body touched unless he’s wide awake.”

“You figured that out in three days?” he asks.

She smiles to herself. “I’ve done a lot of research over the last few months.”

“Of course you did,” he says, and she’d almost call his voice fond, if she didn’t know better.

“All newborns are different,” she says. “But there are points of commonality. It’s just a matter of determining which habits and signals apply.”

“And the touching the face one does?” Ward asks.

“Yes,” she says, and strokes Cameron’s cheek again—more for her own comfort than for his, admittedly.

“Speaking of touch, you’ve been holding him this whole time. I bet your arms are getting tired.”

Her heart leaps to her throat at the thought of where he might be going with that, and she shrinks away from him—or at least as far as she can with his arm still tight around her shoulders, holding her in place.

“Don’t worry,” Ward says. (He keeps _saying_ that; a voice—suspiciously similar to Skye’s—in Jemma’s head mutters, _I do not think it means what he thinks it means._ It rather makes her want to cry.) “I won’t hurt him.”

She can’t stop him from taking Cameron. Trying to is likely only to get Cameron hurt.

But how can she simply hand her son over to a monster, even—especially—if that monster is his father?

“I’m his father,” Ward reminds her, as though following the path of her thoughts.

He’s a lot more than just that. She hasn’t allowed herself to dwell on it often, on the sheer terror all of HYDRA holds for him—not a word from him since April, yet Bakshi was frightened enough to dedicate four specialists to Jemma’s protection, to give her a private lab and first refusal on non-hazardous projects, to keep her restricted to base yet assign an assistant to answer her call for anything she needed at any time, day or night—but she hasn’t forgotten it, either.

She doesn’t want him anywhere near her son. But she knows—she _knows_ —that trying to deny him will only see _her_ kept from Cameron.

Still…

“Okay,” Ward says, and runs his hand down her back, soothing. “We can work up to that. For now, why don’t you just put him down, let him sleep a while?”

She risks a glance at him, and he gives her an encouraging nod.

“All right,” she says. There’s a bassinet well within her reach, and she twists away from him to lay Cameron in it. By now, he’s fallen asleep; he doesn’t react. But she feels the need to reassure him anyway. “There you are, darling.” She keeps her voice hushed as she adjusts his blanket. “Sleep well.”

“Was that so hard?” Ward asks. His hand is still on her back; as soon as she straightens he slides it down to grip her by the waist and yanks her into his lap. She’s too startled to even cry out, and when she recovers enough to try and move away, he easily holds her in place. “And now that our son’s taken care of, let’s talk.”

Something about that—the phrase _our son_ —steals the breath from her lungs. She doesn’t know why.

“Talk about what?” she manages, with some effort.

He pulls her back against his chest, arms tight around her waist. Panic makes her throat tight, and this time, she can’t shut it down.

“You’re afraid of me?” he asks in her ear, far too quietly for any of the cameras to pick up.

Unwilling to trust her voice, she nods.

“Good,” he says. “You always were the smart one.” He lowers his mouth to kiss her jaw, and her heart pounds. “But as long as you _stay_ smart—do what I say, be a good mother to our son, and forget about trying to leave—you’ve got nothing to fear from me.”

“Don’t I?” she asks, tremulous.

He smiles against her skin and leans in even closer—close enough that his lips brush the skin of her ear as he speaks. The breath shudders out of her.

“Be grateful to your son, Jemma,” he says. “He saved your life.”

He nips at her earlobe, sending a jolt of heat right down her spine.

Combined with the way his next words turn her blood to ice, it’s a dizzying sensation.

“The rest of the team won’t be so lucky.”

**Author's Note:**

> With sincere thanks to Atri for giving me way, way more detail than I ever wanted about newborn babies and the effect of childbirth on the body.


End file.
